Have you ever walked into and out of a beauty shop or barber shop and felt like someone unleashed a bombshell on top of your head? It wasn’t exactly what you were expecting. It isn’t exactly what you wanted. Yet, somehow, it happened.
How it happened, you’re still not quite sure. As to where it came from, you think might have had something to do with this seemingly, charming person you first met behind the counter. The same one who just handed you the bill. And expects you to pay for the explosive mass of folic-ally challenged residue called hair. The very appendages, which less than an hour ago gleefully hung in neat rows adorning your head. Looking in the mirror you now find yourself wearing the fragmented shrapnel of some unidentifiable, desecrated, hair-raising remains of what? No one really knows.
Downcast you saunter out the door. Your head’s few remaining hairs desperately clinging to your scalp.
What makes things worse . . . if this could even be possible, is that this very person actually, not only attended but graduated from an accredited institution of higher learning. A place where they were educated, discharged and licensed to utilize their board-certified skills and their near-lethal, non-registered tools of mass hair destruction on your head. The one you now wish was no longer attached to your neck or in any way identifiable or traceable to your specific body.
Bombshell – Haircut or Hairicy.
Until next time . . . Let Your Storyographer’s Journey Continue
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